For anyone in need of solid Johnlock after this mess...
For anyone in need of solid Johnlock after this mess, for anyone wanting to forget s4 and bury yourself in a different canon, I recommend you check out @johnlockish .
Johnlockish is an RP blog. It was started before series 3 came out, so there's nothing from series 3 or 4 in there despite its long run (over 3 years - they're now on hiatus). And they wrote it how it should have been written.
They begin with the aftermath of Sherlock's return (post-s2) and go through John and Sherlock realizing their feelings and navigating a relationship, realistically working out their issues, (eventually) married life, and more, I could go on, it's all there. Johnlock, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, angst, slow burn, everything.
Their writing is GORGEOUS and wonderfully in-character. Everything is on one cohesive blog so it's easy to follow, just like a fic (Sherlock is in italics, John in plain text). They took questions as an RP blog, but also wrote texts to one another/wrote quality fic to fill in gaps readers aren't privy to or to emphasise things in the blog.
And as I said, they wrote (in real-time) for 3 years. They're on hiatus right now and left the option open of coming back, but they left it at a good stopping place with a fic and a sign off from John that seems fitting. Not to mention, there's so much content there - years worth of it - to read and bury yourself in.
They are the epitome of good pure balanced Johnlock for me. And I don't say that lightly. I highly recommend checking them out.
Here is a link to the very beginning (the first post is at the bottom of that page). Don’t click on the ‘plot’ button because that will take you chronologically through the blog, but only the very important bits tagged ‘plot’. It doesn’t include most of the other character/fun bits in between (it was used so people could catch up quickly).
Tagging some people under the cut:
(you might already know this blog - but I don’t know for sure and thought you might be interested <3)
It was so good to see that there were many Johnlock implications(because, Sherlock ship himself with John..hahahahaha). But, at some point I kept watching the whole show with sad and melancholy eyes. After the entire time they’ve been together, it turned out to be one side relationship. And it really broke my heart. GOD…..
So.. Sometimes Sherlock would go into the mind palace to see Watson.. Or see Watson as usual as when he call himself as Homles, in the 21th century…ㅜ
The first thing that alarms John is the fact that Mycroft is texting him. Sherlock has made it a point that Mycroft never texts if he can talk, and if Mycroft can’t talk, it means he’s somehow compromised (or unwilling to get up and leave the bloody room to have a chat; it can always be a bit up-in-the-air with his brother-in-law). That in itself can be potentially complicated.
The next thing that he finds worrisome is the fact that Mycroft is talking to him at all. They don’t have fireside conversations or friendly catch-ups. Even with their tie through matrimony, he and Mycroft aren’t exactly best friends. They only ever talk about Sherlock, and when they do it’s often Mycroft fretting in that way he does until John assures him that everything is fine.
He’s suddenly not so sure if it is.
When Harry leaves to use the cafe restroom, John takes a moment to read over the text in the solitude of his now one-person table. It’s for the best that he’s waited, too, for the words on the screen shock him.
Emergency at Baker Street. No signs of an overdose but drugs absolutely present. Return immediately. MH
Emergency. Drugs. John’s heart nearly stops in his chest and his blood chills. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand. Sherlock had been perfectly fine when he’d left for a weekend excursion with his sister. He’d been clean for two years and showed no signs that he needed a fix. It had been a while for cases, but Sherlock had other outlets now, and his reliance on the cases had weakened. Why would he go back to the drugs? Why?
In the back of his head, John hears Harry asking what’s wrong. He can’t speak, not yet. He thinks of the fastest way to the train station. He’s only half an hour outside London and if he can catch a train or a bus, if they’re still running and still have seats, he can get home within the hour. He has to get home. This can’t wait.
“I have to go,” he tells his sister, and his tone is so serious that she doesn’t question it. She only offers to give him a ride there herself, and he has to accept. He’s happy that she has a car and that they’ve been scooting around for two days, but it’s time to leave. He loves his sister, but his husband needs him and there’s no compromising with that.
-
45 minutes later, and John is charging up the stairs to 221b. He hasn’t answered Mycroft’s text and knows he doesn’t need to for the man to know he’ll drop everything for Sherlock. Of course he will. He hears footsteps coming to greet him, and before he can go into his own flat, he’s stopped at the top step by Mycroft himself, who looks stoic and emotional at the same time; like he’s trying to distance himself from some personal loss. A brother who’s gone back to drugs will do that, John wagers. “What the Hell is going on?” he demands in a too-calm tone of voice, projecting his confusion and concern onto Mycroft, the only physical barrier keeping him from his husband. “What happened?”
A tightness in Mycroft’s throat keeps him from speaking at first, and he has to take a beat to breathe deeply. “I’m sure you’re aware that the relationship between my brother and I and our parents has never been a very strong or loving one,” he says. His voice is slightly strained and he looks down at the floor, lips pursing. “Nonetheless,” he continues, “it seems that when one loses a family member unexpectedly, whether the relation was a close one or not, there’s a certain…” He trails off and shakes his head.
“Our mother died this afternoon,” he says softly. John’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Though she and Sherlock weren’t close, he - he hasn’t taken it well. I suppose that somewhere inside him there was a childlike hope of reconciliation. You weren’t there, not to say that this was your fault, and he fell back on his… original vice of comfort.” He looks up at John with a mournful gaze. “It was an aneurysm. We were both called. I came over as soon as I could, but he had already procured his remedy.”
You weren’t there. Of all the words Mycroft spoke, those ones gripped onto John’s heart and squeezed it until he felt like it would burst. He kept it from doing so by clenching his fist so tight that his knuckles turned white. With a deep breath, he closes his eyes for a moment. He wants to ask a hundred questions at once. Why didn’t Sherlock call him? What, exactly, drew Sherlock and his parents apart? How was Mycroft? Why didn’t Sherlock call him? But instead, he simply sighs through his nose and nods in dismissal. “Right,” he mumbles, looking past Mycroft briefly. He needs to go to Sherlock. Now.
He swallows tightly and opens his mouth to ask where Sherlock is, but the words that begin to slip out are much different. “He doesn’t blame-” John clears his throat and swiftly looks away. This isn’t about him. It can’t be about him. It doesn’t matter if Sherlock blames him for not being there. He’ll deal with that guilt later (and he’ll never let it go). “Where is he now?” he asks, looking back at Mycroft. “Is it… Did you get all of it?”
Mycroft’s eyes flicker over John’s face before he nods. “As far as I’m aware. He wasn’t trying to hide it. I cleaned it all up so you wouldn’t have to deal with it. He’s in the bedroom. He wouldn’t speak to me.” He awkwardly steps aside from the doorway and gestures inside. “I’m sure you’ll have better results than I would. Funny, how even in family tragedy, I am not who he wants.” John’s eyes are cast downward. Mycroft blinks a few times and sighs quietly. “I’ll leave you two be. You know how to call me. I’ve a few things to take care of. I’ll be headed to France tomorrow morning. Bonsoir et bonne chance.” He nods to John, smiles tersely, and makes his way down the stairs and out of the flat without another word.
For a moment, John’s eyes trail after Mycroft, and he debates following him and giving his condolences. Not while Sherlock needs him, though he does decide he’ll text him later. With a breath in, John steels himself and heads into the flat. It’s just shy of two years after Sherlock had first come home, and he remembers shoving all of his own selfish emotions - his pining, his loneliness, his heartache - deep down to focus on helping Sherlock. It seems he’s back to doing just that. He shakes his head, knowing it’ll probably kill him one day. But even that doesn’t matter as much as the man behind the bedroom door.
John takes a moment to hold the knob in his hand, knowing the sound will be known on the other side. Then, he turns it and steps inside. “Sherlock?” he asks quietly through the darkness, peering within. He closes the door behind him and looks at the crumpled form he knows is his husband. John’s eyes soften sadly and he approaches. “Sherlock,” he repeats, voice gentle, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. He doesn’t dare touch him, not yet. He doesn’t know how lucid Sherlock may or may not be, so he waits for a response.
The thick fog weighing down Sherlock’s body and mind parts only in slight to recognise the sound of John’s voice. He doesn’t try to move and barely manages a soft grunt in response to his husband’s sad callings of his name. He doesn’t want to talk. He knows John will want him to talk, to give some sign that nothing spectacularly wrong has happened in his return to drugs. He wants to lie and wallow in the weightless incorporeal feeling of his body and revert to the state in which he once lived, far before today, when he could bury and suppress his emotions. His bond with John has done wonders for him, but in this case he wishes nothing had changed.
He pushes enough loose matter and energy back into his arm to throw it to the side and pat the space behind him. The least he can do is show John that he’s still marginally functional, and that even in his state of unexpected grief, he still wants his husband with him.
John has never dealt with Sherlock when he’s on drugs. He’s only ever known the aftershock and withdrawal but never the actual moment where he’s high. High and heartbroken, it would seem. It’s tempting to leave him be, and he would if not for the drugs coursing throughout Sherlock’s body. The weak pat to the bed makes John frown. He can’t even be arsed to look up and meet John’s eye. Instead of mentally antagonising Sherlock, though, he obliges and sits on the bed, drawing his legs up. The mattress creaks beneath him; they need a new one, he thinks.
He isn’t sure how to approach this - both Sherlock’s drug problem and his grief. He’s never had to before and now John doesn’t know what to do when he’s presented with both of them. He finds that all he wants to do is apologise. Apologise for the loss Sherlock’s felt, apologise for not being there (it’s not your fault, he tells himself, but only half believes it). He doesn’t let himself. He can’t focus on himself. He needs to focus on Sherlock. He clears his throat quietly and looks at the other man’s back. He reaches out to touch him; just his index finger at first, a hesitant greeting, before he slowly lays his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s ready to pull back if he needs to, but Sherlock has shown he can be receptive to touch and appreciates it. It’s worth a try. “What was it and how much?” he asks, deciding to keep things factual. Best to get all of this out of the way first. “Will you let me give you a once-over?”
“Morphine,” Sherlock mumbles, sighing softly. His arm is bent at an uncomfortable angle now, but he doesn’t bother to pull it back. The weight of John’s hand on his shoulder is something like an anchor, and he doesn’t know if he likes it or not. “A hundred milligrams. I factored in my waning tolerance and other… stuff,” he finishes lamely. “If you feel that it’s necessary, you may poke and prod to your heart’s desire. Try to avoid the submandibular glands. They swell when I use.” In the back of his head he knows that in the morning he’s going to regret having done this - the emotionless feeling is nice, for now, but the pain he’s likely causing John is going to stick around for quite awhile.
With a matter-of-factly nod, John shifts his weight so he’s on his knees. He puts Sherlock’s arm back where it belongs and mumbles, “Up we go,” and gently hoists his husband into a sitting position; Sherlock grunts, but complies. John keeps a steady hand on his back for a moment, then lets go. It’s a relief to see Sherlock remain upright. John avoids looking at his face. He takes his pulse through his wrist, then puts a hand on Sherlock’s chest and counts his breaths. He remains silent as he reaches for his phone and turns on its built-in flash light. He would have grabbed his first aid kit, but he doesn’t want to leave Sherlock’s side; as if he’s afraid he’ll prick himself with something else. There’s a bit of fractured trust now. John wanted their marriage to be full of trust and security but that’s been lost for now.
Instead of sitting in silence and thinking about the state of things, he gets back to it and flashes the light in Sherlock’s eyes. He knows Sherlock will know what to do. He trails the light to and fro and watches his eyes follow. They look void of any emotion or thought, and it almost makes John angry, as if all the hard work they had put into Sherlock’s sobriety and sentiment is gone. He can feel himself frowning from the sting of it all, so he clears his throat and looks away. “I’m going to keep an eye on you until the high wears off,” he declares, not giving any room for objection. “You’ve done this plenty of times before,” (it’s passive aggressive and he knows it, but better to say that than something worse) “so let me know when it’s getting done with or if you need anything.” It’s hard to treat your own husband as nothing more than a patient, but for both their sakes, it’s what needs to be done. Sherlock flops back down on the bed, and John sits back in his spot with a long sigh, his back on the headboard and one knee up. His hands wrap around his propped leg and he stares out into the room at the little home they’ve built in their domesticity. He tries his best to remember that Sherlock’s just lost his mum and that he has no right to take any of this personally. “If you need to talk,” he adds in a mumble, “I’m here.” He doubts he will anytime soon, if his aloof high is any indication.
Sherlock hums in recognition of John’s sentiment and stares up at the ceiling, shrouded in darkness though it is. He can feel waves of resentment and hurt coming off John and tries to ignore them. He knows there’s going to be some painful rift between them once this wears off, and he only has an hour or two left. He’s going to be on eggshells for days; weeks, even. He doesn’t want it to wear off. Mycroft took the rest and John won’t let him out of his sight, so there’s no chance of getting any more. He’s cornered, and he shouldn’t want to run away, but he does. A disappointed feeling settles at the bottom of his stomach. He’d been doing so well.
“I don’t know why I’m upset,” he whispers hoarsely. “I shouldn’t be upset. I shouldn’t be mourning. She doesn’t deserve it from me.”
John looks at Sherlock through the corners of his eyes. He blinks his gaze back to where it was on the wall and considers not responding. He can’t do that, though. No matter how hurt he is, no matter how guilty he feels, he can’t not be there for Sherlock. It’s awful, sometimes. He sighs through his nose. “Someone who was a constant in your life is gone,” he wagers. “It doesn’t matter what the relationship became. Doesn’t matter how far she was. Your mum is someone who’s always there, be it good or bad. That’s what parents are supposed to be. Constant. Steady. And losing that is…”
Briefly, he thinks about his own parents and the sting of losing his mother. Granted, they had been close when she passed and he’d been continents away, but he isn’t close at all to his father anymore - hell, he doesn’t even know where the man is. He can relate, a bit. He sighs. “It’s hard,” he summarises. “No one is equipped to deal with that.” He can feel himself falling back in time to when he lost Sherlock, the one person he truly thought would always be there, and he has to stop himself from going down the rabbit hole. “You could have called,” he can’t help but say, looking away from Sherlock as he does. “This didn’t have to happen.”
Sherlock swallows hard against his thick tongue. “I wasn’t thinking,” he mumbles. John shakes his head minutely. “It was like I’d been thrown back twenty years and… I didn’t think.” He feels his lips twitch into a pout. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.” He sighs and turns on his side and throws an arm over John’s leg. “I don’t want to mourn her. If I mourn like this when my estranged mother dies, what’s going to happen when - ” He cuts off quickly and shuts his mouth. He doesn’t want to think about it. He has a sudden, strong urge to crawl downstairs and curl up with Mrs. Hudson like he used to as a child, but he pushes it away. He shoves his face into John’s thigh. “It doesn’t feel good. I thought this would help. It’s not helping.”
John gazes at the arm perched on his leg, as if Sherlock is begging him not to go. He won’t say it’s all fine just like that, but he does move his hand back to touching Sherlock. He pets Sherlock’s arm in gentle, idle strokes of support. “I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbles. He’s not going to leave Sherlock because of this. He’s not going to die anytime soon, either. He figures there’s no harm in reassuring him of those simple truths. “There are more consequences now,” is all he says. He hates talking about Sherlock’s drug use. He knows they’ll have to eventually, but his heart is more important.
With a sigh, John reaches over Sherlock and strokes his hair. He trails his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, trying to coax him into looking over. It’s just a hope, though, so he stops and pets his hair again. “I don’t have all the answers you need,” he says, “and I can’t take the pain away. But, I still want to try. You just… you need to let me.” He doesn’t want to make it about him. He can’t. But, he’s going to explode if he doesn’t talk. “Please,” he pleads quietly, “I know it’s hard for you, I know that, but…” John has to swallow against the (guilty, hurt, worried, disappointed) knot in his throat to compose himself. “Right now, as your doctor, you need me to help you. But… as your husband, I need to help you.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand weakly, his own silent plea. He wants to take Sherlock’s confusing pain away. He wants to help him through his inevitable withdrawal. But, he wasn’t invited to help in the first place; he sincerely doesn’t know if Sherlock will let him do so now.
Feeling a bit choked up, Sherlock nods minutely and squeezes John’s hand in return. He’s going to have to deal with all of this eventually - and sooner is better than later. Except, perhaps, for the withdrawal. He would be open to waiting on that. “I should have called,” he admits, nuzzling John’s thigh. “I was stupid. Stupid, stupid. I always want you to help me. I always want you here with me.” He sighs shakily and lets the weightless feeling that comes with the opiates settle over him again. “It’s hard to remember sometimes that you always want to be here with me, too. I spent a good few years thinking that wasn’t the case.” He would look up at John and smile sadly if he could be overcome with the urge to move. “My mother had to die the weekend you were away, of course. Always ruins things like that.”
“Bit rude, isn’t it?” John jokes. Then, he winces a bit. Usually, Sherlock appreciates his inappropriate humour, but this is Sherlock’s own dead mother he’s joking about. John doubts Sherlock could laugh even if he wanted to; the drug is particularly potent, its job well done. He changes the subject. “Just let me know what you need, when you know what that is. I’ll do my best.” He rubs his thumb in circles over the soft skin between Sherlock’s digits. He wishes Sherlock would look at him, but knows that he can’t quite help his apathy. “I’m a bit rubbish at this,” he mentions. “Sorry. I’ve never…” No, no. Saying he’s never dealt with someone who’s high off their mind won’t make it any better. Instead, he clears his throat (and can hear Sherlock’s voice in his head: you clear your throat when you’re uncomfortable or about to be brief or take your leave. Hard to imagine how you don’t have constant laryngitis) and says, “You should probably drink some water, to start with. Think you can do that for me?”
Sherlock hums and nods against John’s thigh. “I’ll drink it, but I don’t think I have the will or strength to get up and fetch it. Might need some help sitting up again, too. I’m fine - just tired and wobbly.” He shifts himself lazily off of John to let him up to get the water, which he does without a word. He lets his face settle in the warm sheets and his fingers curl and uncurl absently, almost out of his control. He wants to go to sleep. He feels fuzzy, like someone started running an eraser against his outlines. If he told John any of this, he’d probably want to do a more thorough check-up, so he won’t mention any of it. Admittedly, and unexpectedly, he feels a bit better. He’d been expecting a night full of sulking and mourning, but John is helping. He always helps, and that Sherlock ran to the drugs instead of calling his husband makes him feel like an idiot. A selfish, guilty idiot.
John takes a few moments after getting a glass of water to simply stand and collect himself in the kitchen. He tries to convince himself that none of this is his fault. How was he supposed to know that Sherlock’s mum would die during the one weekend of his absence? Somehow, against everything that makes sense, he still feels guilty for it. He still feels hurt that Sherlock chose drugs over him. He still feels angry that their hard work was for nothing. He wishes, for a moment, that he could get a hit of the drug so he, too, could know apathy and empty bliss. John runs his hands through his hair, takes a few deep breaths, and heads back into the room. He puts the glass by the table - he even added a straw to entice Sherlock into putting even a minimal amount of energy into drinking - and sits back down, wishing he could simply hold Sherlock against him and tell him it will all be all right. But he can’t, not now, not while Sherlock is still so frustratingly detached. John looks his way, opens his mouth to speak, then looks at their duvet instead, trying not to think of the rift that will take place of trust.
Once John is settled on the bed again, Sherlock shifts close and presses his face to John’s side. In an hour and a half he’s going to feel downright awful - physically and emotionally - and he just wants to enjoy what little apathy he has left. He knows, however, that it’s probably killing John. It’s not just the drugs, but the fact that he can’t help. Nothing can help with this right now. Sherlock feels lukewarm and empty and unaffected, and whether or not that’s what he needed, he doesn’t know, but now he knows that he needs to fix things before they get worse. “I know you hate this,” he mumbles. He puts a hand on John’s knee and rubs his thumb against John’s jeans, a motion that gets John’s attention. “I know you probably hate me. But thank you for being here anyway.” He lets out a long sigh, then grunts and pushes himself to a somewhat slumped-against-John sitting position. “I’ll drink the water,” he promises. “I’ll even hold the glass myself.”
A sigh escapes John and his eyes close. He wraps an arm around Sherlock, but keeps it loose. If Sherlock doesn’t want him there, he can push him away. He does it because he wants to. He does it because he needs to. He does it because even with Sherlock high on morphine and mostly unresponsive, he still loves him. Of course he does. “I don’t hate you,” he replies after a long moment. “I’ve tried to hate you before. I can’t. This isn’t okay, and you’re right, I’m not happy with it.” He can’t bring himself to say he’s not happy with Sherlock. He supposes it’s the guilt. “But, don’t ever think I hate you,” he says, tone soft but serious.
He shifts so one hand is still holding Sherlock up by the shoulder, but he’s leant in front of him and searches his face. It hurts to see him helplessly void of emotion, and it hurts even more to say what he’s going to, but he needs to say it. “Even when you sod up, even when you’re selfish, even when you’re hurting, I always love you.” He blindly wishes for a response. He wishes he could see Sherlock’s eyes soften, could feel the touch of his forehead and the soft way he’s come to say, John. Instead of lingering on what feels like a memory of Sherlock, he moves back to where he was with a soft sigh of, “Drink your water. You said you could get it; I’m not going to help you.”
Sherlock remains leaning against John and breathes for a few beats. Then, he sits up properly, forcing himself up, and presses his dry lips to John’s cheek. “I love you, too,” he mumbles. And he does. Even if it feels like there’s a sponge in his chest, soaking up all feeling inside him, he knows that he loves John, and he always will. He’s grateful for all that John does for him. He leans across his husband and wraps his heavy fingers around the glass and pulls it back with him when he falls heavily against the headboard. A bit of water splashes onto his pyjamas and he sighs, staring pathetically at it. He gives up after a moment and swirls the water around in the glass until the straw is directly in front of his mouth, then takes a long sip. “Wet,” he comments blandly. He tilts his head to the side to look over at John, who’s clearly avoiding his gaze. “How long am I going to be making up for this?” he asks softly.
It’s as if Sherlock’s apathy is contagious. John shrugs and tries to find something to look at other than his high husband. “I don’t know,” he replies at long last, supposing the truth is better than silence. “We’re probably going to fight. You’re going to feel bad for it. I’m going to feel bad for it.” A heavy sigh pushes past his lips and he covers his face with his hands. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, voice muffled against his palms. “Let’s just try to worry about sobering up and withdrawal and your mourning for now.” His hands move to rest below his chin. He wants to hold Sherlock. Wants to be held. Wants normal grieving and support. Wants to know why Sherlock still can’t rope him in; why he still pushes away. His eyes close and he dips his forehead against his hands, almost looking like he’s trying to pray. He isn’t, of course. He just thinks it will all be easier this way. (It isn’t.)
Nodding to himself, Sherlock sighs and drinks some more of his water. It's very flavourless, for water. He feels like in drinking it, his body and mind should be rejuvenated, and the drugs should wear off, and he should wake up after all this has gone away and things are okay again. "I don't want to fight," he mutters, leaning against John. The water sloshes and some more spills onto his shirt. "I hate when we fight. It never makes things any better. Why do we bother fighting if it doesn't make any advances in our relationship?" He pauses then, his lips twisting into a frown. "I suppose I could ask myself the same thing about drug use," he adds sadly. John quietly snorts, almost amused. "But, I don't want to fight. We're getting everything out here, now. Why should we fight?" he asks, tilting his head back to look up at John.
John sees Sherlock looking at him in his peripheral vision. He can’t stand it. He continues to look away. “Because,” he says with a sigh, “I’m going to want someone with you at all times to keep this from happening again. We’ll fight because you’ll feel like you’re being babysat and you’ll say you’re not a child, it was a slip-up, it won’t happen again. You’ll scold me for skipping work to stay home and keep an eye on you. We’ll fight because I’ll be too scared to believe you, and too frustrated with the situation. I’ll probably yell at you, and you’ll yell at me, and one of us will go to the fire escape, and I’ll want to leave to go for a walk but I can’t because that means leaving you alone, and how do I know you won’t…”
John trails off, a hand running through his fringe. He’s set up what’s going to happen before it even has. But, this is how things go: something bad happens, he becomes too protective, Sherlock feels too crowded, and they don’t meet in the middle for weeks. This time, though, it’s a matter of trust, and fear, and John dreads it all. He drags his hands to his eyes and he presses his palms in until his vision turns spotty. “You won’t reach out to me,” he mumbles miserably. Sherlock feels his heart sink like a stone into his stomach and frowns. He pulls away and stares into his cup. “You never reach out to me. You just push me away. You always have, and one day it’s going to get you killed. It already has, once.”
But, it isn’t fair for him to say any of it, not when Sherlock physically and emotionally can’t fight back; when all he can do is listen and stare blankly at John with water on his shirt and drugs in his veins. It’s cruel for John to gut him when he’s defenceless. He hates himself for it, but he relents and mutters, “Sorry. We’ll talk when you’re sober.” When you’re sober. He loathes the words. He draws both his legs up with a wince and puts his arms on his knees, then rests his forehead on them. He feels entirely selfish.
Sherlock puts the cup on his bedside table and blinks a few times. “I don’t want to talk when I’m sober,” he decides. “I don’t want to talk when I’m sober, I want to talk now. This is me, reaching out to you, which I clearly don’t do enough of.” He pushes himself up off the bed and huffs a little bit and crosses his arms. John lifts his head up and braces himself to stand. Sherlock speaks before he can. “My mother died, John; it was sudden and you weren’t here and I reacted without thinking of the consequences. I realise that it’s probably something that you deem highly unlikely of me to do but I find myself quite often turning immediately to the easiest solution in the face of grief. I do apologise but I’m not the only one who runs away from his problems.”
He ignores the weak feeling in his muscles and paces the length of the bedside. “And since you’ve already decided that we’re going to fight and what we’re going to fight over I suppose I can get a head start. Don’t worry about leaving me alone, Mycroft took the rest of the pills. Feel free, run away from your problems just like I have. We can talk about it when I’m sober.” He chuckles mirthlessly and shakes his head, unaware of where the sudden anger is coming from but too upset to deal with it. “I should be going up to the fire escape then, hmm? S’pose I should grab a coat, it was cold when I ran out earlier without reaching out to you,” he spits.
There’s absolutely nothing John can say to what Sherlock has thrown at him. He sits and stares, mouth agape, feeling hurt and angry and sick and worried, but unable to voice a damn thing. He can only shake his head helplessly and hate himself a little bit more. He knows how stubborn Sherlock is on a normal day. He knows how stubborn he is when he’s angry. God only knows how stubborn he’ll be when he’s angry and high. John tries to swallow the knot in his throat, but it remains and constricts his voice so it comes out strained. “You’re high,” he says simply. “It’s a bad idea for you to be doing much of anything, let alone climbing through a window onto a rickety old platform.” Sherlock huffs and shakes his head.
John’s gaze shifts to their window with its perpetually closed blinds. “It’s cold out there, yeah,” he adds, hating how weak his voice sounds. It probably makes Sherlock feel good. He looks at him at last and hopes he looks like a doctor, detached and ready to sign a prescription and move on to the next patient. But he knows he doesn’t. He knows he looks tired, and sad, and angry. He also knows he looks resigned, and that’s the worst bit, he thinks.
“I won’t stop you if you go,” he admits. “I don’t want to fight, believe it or not.” He can find a million different reasons and excuses about his fears, but it isn’t the time. “But, as your doctor, I…” His lips quiver and he forces them into a frown to keep them still. Now isn’t the time for that, either. He doesn’t know if it’s time to fight Sherlock and butt heads; time to drag him back into bed and scold him. He doesn’t know if it’s time to shout back and turn this into a competition of who can hurt who the most. He doesn’t know if it’s time to give up. He doesn’t know, and he hates it, and he hates himself, and he wants to hate Sherlock but he never can, and all he can do is whisper, “Don’t,” and hope it’s the right thing to say.
At the soft, weak, whispered word from John, Sherlock pauses in his pacing and stares at the floor. He doesn’t want to fight with John. He knows that nothing good will come of it, and he knows that the reason they’re in this position is because of him. It’s his fault and they both know it, and yet he’s still managed to make himself into the victim. It’s wrong of him, and he doesn’t want to hurt John, who only wants to help him. He can end this before it starts, and with a heavy sigh he knows he’s going to have to.
He sits down on the edge of the mattress and exhales softly. John feels like he’s still so far away. “I won’t,” Sherlock mumbles. “I won’t.” He shakes his head and chews the inside of his lip. “I want to but I won’t. I don’t… enjoy running away from you. I’ve never had a partner to whom I could go and receive help. I’ve never had that, and so it’s not in my nature to expect that immediately. You can’t… blame me for this repeatedly. It takes time. It’s reconditioning. I… am an addict,” he says. “I am and I have been for twenty years and it takes work to change that. You of all people should understand.”
Suddenly, even with the relief he feels at Sherlock’s decision, John has a great many things he wants to say. All of it has its time and place, and though he wishes it could be right then, he decides to do what he’s done time and time again: he shelves it. He pushes it away. He has to in order to keep Sherlock there, to keep the ice under their feet from getting thinner. “I know,” he replies, accepting guilt that has actual grounds. Nevertheless, he feels himself wanting to demand reason. I was a phone call away, he wants to beg. You were doing so well. I don’t understand. You’ve had me to lean on all this time. I don’t understand. He doesn’t voice a word of it; nor does he look at Sherlock. He looks down at their bed, submissive and yielding to his husband’s high volatility.
“We need to talk,” John admits. “We’ll… probably still argue because it’s something you and I both do. But, you’re right. We need to talk about this.” He swallows, still trying to release the constricting feeling in his throat. He can’t cry, not on top of all of this. Maybe later, when Sherlock is asleep, he’ll shower and scald his skin and get it all out then. “But, I… I can’t, right now. I don’t want to, I never want to, it’s not easy for me and you know that. But right now, it…” John blinks quickly, looking up at the ceiling, willing threatening tears back into his ducts. “It hurts too much, seeing you like this, knowing - ” I wasn’t there for you. You didn’t call me. I wasn’t there for you. No, no, no. He sniffles quietly and tries to play it off like it’s nothing but congestion. Sherlock can tell it isn’t and tries to hold on to some of his resentment from before, but can’t.
“It’s not fair to you, either,” he continues. “As angry as you got, you can’t do much, right now. And don’t try to prove me wrong; I’m a doctor, I know highs.” He shoots Sherlock a look that would have been a playful dare had the situation been different. He takes a breath and lets it out, damning how it trembles. “You’ve just lost your mother, too,” he mentions, and he has the courage to look at Sherlock again. “Do you really think now’s the best time?” His hand twitches and shifts, as if trying to weigh the pros and cons of grabbing his husband’s.
Sherlock lets his shoulders sag and sighs softly. “No,” he concedes. He can feel his apathy starting to creep back in and his edges feel cold, but it’s not as strong as before. “I don’t want to push it off, either, though,” he says, looking over his shoulder at John. “We both fucked up. We can’t refuse to acknowledge it.”
“We both fucked up,” John repeats in a murmur of agreement.
Sherlock exhales shakily and lies back, head resting near John’s feet. The entire evening’s ordeal has left him feeling exhausted both physically and emotionally, and though he knows there’s a good hour left for the drug to run through his system, he feels less emotionless than he did when John first came home. It’s just the effect his husband has on him, he supposes. “I love you,” he says again, trying to make eye contact with John. “We’ll be okay. We have to be. Otherwise the papers will have a hayday with our divorce,” he teases lightly.
A dry chortle escapes John briefly. “You wouldn’t lift a finger to sign one damn form, you lazy dick,” he teases back with little hope of a laugh in response. He prods Sherlock’s shoulder with his toe, then draws his legs up and shifts so he is on his stomach and his head is near Sherlock’s. He hesitates, then puts his hand in Sherlock’s hair. The least he can do is try to offer him some physical comfort while the high comes down slowly but surely. His fingers card through Sherlock’s hair and he looks at him with sad but accepting gaze. “I love you, too,” he mumbles, hoping that Sherlock never forgets it.
He hates what this does to Sherlock, but he won’t say a word. He hates the lack of trust that will still follow, but doesn’t mention it. How can he now? He stays silent and patient and plays with a defiant curl, as if this isn’t the shell of Sherlock Holmes, as if everything is okay, and he sighs again, “I love you, too.”
Sherlock Holmes was bored. He was out of his mind, shoot holes in the wall, bored. There was nothing that could stop his mind from rotting away and he just had to accept the fact that he was going to die lying on the couch. ‘Why did it have to end like this?’ he thought as he stared up at the ceiling. ‘I hate the ceiling.’
His mind jumped a bit when he heard the door open, the hinges making more noise than they should have, but it slowly stopped moving again when he realized that it was just John. Plain, ordinary John. He shut his eyes and brought his hands together under his chin. “John, did you do anything interesting on your little outing?” he asked when the man was in the living room.
Then something hit his nose. Iron? No. Copper? No. His eyes shot open and he looked over at John who had blood streaming down his arm as he pressed into what was most likely the wound. “What happened?” he asked before his mind jumped into hyper drive.
Dirt covered most of his clothes, bruise on his cheek, cracked his rib, bullet wound? He shook his head. “Stabbed,” he said out loud.
Pushing himself up, Sherlock was at his side in seconds. “Why haven’t you gone to the hospital?” he asked, trying to examine the wound. “You’re the poster boy for going to the hospital.” He looked at John and noticed he wasn’t speaking.
Sherlock pulled John over to his chair and sat him down. “I’ll call you an ambulance,” he whispered, trying to see if John’s eyes were able to focus on him. After a second Sherlock pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance, explaining all that he could.
It took the paramedics forever to show up and Sherlock was trying to help John stop the bleeding when they came up with their equipment. John still hadn’t spoken a word.
When Sherlock could no longer feel John under his fingertips, feeling the life moving through his body everything went dull. The paramedics spoke with Sherlock and he spoke back but he didn’t know what he said.
After John was taken to the hospital Sherlock could hear everything come back and feel everything again but it didn’t matter. He scrambled for his phone and texted Mycroft before getting a cab and following the ambulance.
Sherlock made it to the hospital, everything going grey again. He was nervous. Nervous about what though? John should be fine. There wasn’t a lot of blood loss, the wound didn’t seem that big.
What if it hit a nerve? Or a bundle of nerves? What if he couldn’t move his arm? Would he be able to work on case?
Sherlock covered his ears and started humming softly, trying to shut off his mind for once. He was growing scared now. John would be alright. His John was always fine.
He wasn’t his John though. He was just John. Plain, ordinary John. He wasn’t though. He was really so much more. Nothing seemed to stay the same. John Hamish Watson was a book you couldn’t put down.
A doctor came out and Sherlock’s mind came back to life, ears perking for any type of news on John Watson.
“He will be fine,” the doctor told him. “He just got out of surgery and will be waking up soon. That is if you want to go see him.”
Sherlock didn’t say a word to him. He just stood up and strode pass him, going to the room that he saw on the clipboard the doctor was holding. He had to see if John was okay himself.
The door seemed heavy as he tried pushing it open. Where did all his strength go? He listened closely, trying to hear the heart monitor to see if it was going strong, trying to hear the gentle breathing that John always had when he was resting.
When the door was finally open he laid his eyes on John. Usually people looked frail and weak in the hospital, Sherlock noticed that on his last visit but John looked beaten. Strong but beaten.
A step closer and he noticed the bruises that covered on side of his chest, all of them made with the left hand, one ring. The attacker was possibly married.
He was at his side in seconds but it felt like hours. Without a second thought Sherlock took John’s hand. John’s warm, strong hand. He glanced down at the large hand, noticing his knuckles were bruised and cut open.
John was a fighter. Sherlock smiled for the first time since that morning. John was his fighter. His soldier. Of course he was alright.
Sherlock felt the hand he was holding squeeze his and he looked up, seeing John’s eyes locked on him. “Sherlock,” he murmured, smiling a bit. “What are you doing here? You hate hospitals.”
Sherlock just stared at him for a few seconds before opening his mouth and letting everything come out. “Yes, I hate hospitals but I don’t hate you. You were hurt and I had to make sure you were alright. It took me a while to come to the conclusion that of course you were alright. You’re you. You’re not plain or ordinary. You’re fascinating, an unsolvable puzzle, a fighter,” he said all in one breath. He squeezed his hand tightly. “You’re my John.”
John blinked at him for a few seconds before nodding and squeezing his hand gently. “Thank you,” he murmured, a small smile on his face.
Sherlock felt his breathing slow down and he nodded, resting his head on the edge of John’s bed. He never wanted John to get hurt again but he knew it was going to happen. There was nothing that he could do to stop it. John worked with him and Sherlock brought on destruction wherever he went.
A heavy feeling settled in his stomach when that thought crossed his mind. He opened his mouth but John shook his head. “I don’t care how many times I get hurt by your side, I’m never leaving it,” he told him.
Sherlock smiled and shut his eyes. He kissed John’s hand and nodded. His wonderful John. “Good,” he whispered.
